Kinver, Treasure Trail, Sunday, 19th April

Our next outing is to Kinver on Sunday, April 19th where Peter and Fran Hodges are organising a treasure trail which will take in the fascinating history and natural environment of the area . You can see them hard at work in the picture.

This will include a canal walk, a visit to the ‘rock houses’ on Kinver Edge, an iron age hill fort, an ancient church and beautiful scenery.
We will start at 10.30am approx and we will try to sort out lifts to cut down on the number of cars travelling to this distant place.
Please make a space for this in your diary ( if it's not already there ).

Much Wenlock Trip, Saturday March 21st

Paul welcomed us to Priory Hall where he gave us a short introductory talk

and then took us on a tour around the town

After the walk Ken Milner, a local man, shared his experiences of life in Much Wenlock .....

... and Paul Weedon brought in lots of fascinating maps, diagrams and fossils to help explain the geology of the area.

After lunch Paul ( Francis that is ) led us on a walk to the top of Wenlock Edge and back in time .....

... for Paul Evans, a nature diarist with The Guardian and a programme maker with the BBC, who gave us an insight into the work of a professional writer.

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Thanks again to Paul Francis for organising a brilliant day's activites and to the three speakers for giving up their time to join us.

Thanks also to Anthony Cain for the photographs.

Three Short Poems in a Japanese Style

in the graveyard
a fall of snow
onto black marble

Dave Bingham


silver moon
aloof on a spatter cloud track
rolls into winter

Barbara Chapman



a man thinks
it takes a lifetime
and he is gone

Anthony Cain

'The View from Kinver Edge' by Peter Hodges

Kinver Edge is the watershed where Staffordshire gives way to Worcestershire, industry to rural life, where heather and woodland co-exist, and visitors from all around come to enjoy nature, good walking, and past generations of history. From Kinver Edge the counties of Shropshire, Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, and Herefordshire may be seen. Likewise, the hills of Clent, Clee, and Abberley, Cannock Chase, the Cotswolds, Breden, the Long Mynd, and the Malverns. Yet from any of these it will be almost impossible to identify Kinver Edge. Such is how it fits into the landscape: a low ridge of sandstone and pebble, part wooded, part heath, but otherwise without a distinguishing feature that makes it recognisable from outside. But the views are without peer. In the year 1775 J. Heely was admiring these views when he was overtaken by a storm. So violent was the tempest that he hastened down from the escarpment and was given shelter by a family of cave dwellers at Holy Austin Rock. Five years before Heely's adventure, James Brindley cut the Staffs and Worcs Canal through Kinver on its way to the Severn.

A few facts: Kinver is the most southerly village in Staffordshire. Inhabitants number around 7000, there are six restaurants, six pubs, a library, health centre, two dentists, two butchers and two green grocers, two fish and chip shops and a Chinese takeaway, three hairstylists and a barber, a pharmacy, veterinary practice, doctor, bank, two post offices, a Spar and a Co-op, and a Methodist church. The parish church, however, stands aloof—no one knows quite why—on the escarpment, looking down as it has from Norman times when Kinver was known as Kinfare.

But it was iron that changed Kinver for ever. The Stour—a useful little river—provided both transport and power and soon its winding banks were crammed with enterprise. From the 16th century to the 18th the iron industry grew. By 1850 the population of Kinver had risen four-fold. By 1890 the iron works were gone, unable to compete with Birmingham and the Black Country. The village declined and faced destitution. The paradox is that Birmingham and the Black Country were to be the saviour. The new wealth there translated into tourism and folk saw Kinver as a haven.

The escape from smoke and grime for wholesome Kinver air and fine views was the new industry. Kinver came to be promoted as the Switzerland of the Midlands for the Edge, the winding valley, the winding village street fired the romance in the minds of many. So much so that in 1901 the Kinver Light Railway opened, the first cross-country tramway in Britain and it linked Kinver to the conurbation. Now folk could come in their droves to enjoy the walks on Kinver Edge and afterwards, relax in the café's and tea houses, hotels and pubs.

The outcome was dramatic. The village thrived once more. On Whit Monday, 1905, the tramway carried nearly 17,000 visitors. And the trams ran long into the night to get everyone home. Tourism also brought postcards. There are thousands still circulating. Many of the rock houses were photographed, and the troglodytes who occupied them and who, no doubt, charged for the privilege. Rock House tea rooms sprang up. A pot of tea, bread and butter for four cost 2/6d (12p), and afterwards, a small charge for use of the loo, or soil closet as it was then. The last rock house tearoom was at Holy Austin which closed in the 1960s. Now owned and restored by the National Trust, the tearoom is set to re-open.

The National Trust has a significant interest in Kinver. The Edge was purchased by the four children of a Birmingham solicitor and given to the Trust to protect it from developers. This was 1917, the First World War was at its height, and Kinver Edge was the first of the large Midland open spaces to come into Trust ownership. A 'green lung' was how Octavia Hill, a founding member of Trust, described these new open spaces that were open for all and forever.

More facts and firsts. Of the two wells at Holy Austin Rock, one is said to be the deepest in England at 180 feet. The hymn writer and novelist Baring Gould set his novel Bladys of Stewponey in and around the caves at Kinver. Dorothy Round, twice Ladies Wimbleden Champion in the 1930s, lived in the village. Kinver Edge and Holy Austin Rock are Sights of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) for the insects, plants, and geology. A Scheduled Ancient Monument crowns the northern promontory of the Edge. The Iron Age hillfort also includes within its schedule a World War 2 Home Guard observation post. The Queen and her sister as the young princesses Elizabeth and Margaret dropped in at Holy Austin one day when passing by. After the Battle of Worcester, Charles II eluded his pursuers by riding along the ridge. It was once claimed that in 1916 a German Zeppelin landed on the hillfort but this has probably more to do with the said claimant living next door to the Elm Tree pub.

Zeppelin or not, the view from up here is still worth the climb.

'Rosie's Farmhouse Pantry' by Rosie Pugh

This is the start of a much longer piece in which Rosie Pugh describes the years she spent running her teashop.

I had been in Bridgnorth less than eighteen month’s when my husband, Keith, said we must think of something to add to the farm to bring in extra money.
A couple of month’s later, I had a dream in which I was serving tea and coffee with cakes and sandwiches. I shook Keith, in the middle of the night, and told him what I had dreamt. He said we should talk in the morning and that I was to go back to sleep. The dream was so real I was unable to return to sleep and eagerly waited. In the morning over breakfast we discussed it and finally he agreed that I could open a teashop.
It was then left to me to organise and find the information I needed as I had no idea what to do. I had to sort it all out and get the place ready which would involve turning our dining room, with just one table, into a tearoom.
It needed painting as it looked as if it had not been painted for many years. It was the same with the hall and the down stairs toilet. They were both a funny green colour and I wanted the room to be in antique pink and the hall in a pale peach. I set to and bought the paint and brushes and got on with the job. I was not an expert painter but I did quite well considering I was still working outside helping with the potatoes and doing my housework at the same time.
When the room was ready , I had to buy some tables and chairs but I could not afford anything upmarket so I went to a small shop near the cattle market outside Bridgnorth and they gave me three months credit and I bought some plastic ones to start with.
The porcelain cups, saucers and plates came from my sister-in-law Pollie. My table cloths and serviettes were altered so they matched and I added some white lace to make them prettier. Keith and I moved a large dresser into the dining room and placed ornaments and a beautiful, scented candle on the shelves.
Slowly things started to take shape as the place became bright and cheery. My son Garry called and I asked him if he would do a sign for me to hang up near the road. He agreed and suggested I call my teashop ’Rosie’s Farmhouse Pantry’. I thought this sounded delightful. He painted one red rose on a white board and he painted the writing in black.
The weekend I had planned for opening was approaching and I was suddenly gripped with fear. What was I letting myself in for? I was treading into the unknown. I was out of my depth. Deep down I knew I had no idea of how to run a teashop.

'Ippikin and the Young Poet' by Dave Bingham

Again the young poet tried.
‘Ippikin, Ippikin, keep away with your long chin.’
And, as before, nothing happened.
The boulder which covered the entrance to the cave remained exactly where it was, the trees which grew from the limestone cliff lost not a single leaf and the birds continued to flit by without breaking their flight.
‘What a lot of old rot,’ he thought, ‘I’ve been a fool. I knew I should have ignored them.’
‘Them’ being the regulars at the Wenlock Edge Inn who had told the young poet about Ippikin.
Ippikin, the twelfth century, robber knight who terrorised the villages between Caer Caradoc and the River Severn and held-up and murdered travellers on the track from Much Wenlock to Ludlow.
Ippikin, buried inside Wenlock Edge for eight hundred years after a huge boulder fell across the entrance to the cave where he and his band of criminals were hiding.
Ippikin, who, legend has it, responds to an ancient rhyme by emerging from his cave to kill the person who calls him.
The young poet picked up his bag. ‘It’s my own fault, I was much too drunk and much too gullible.’ He was about to leave when he heard a rustling in the trees.
At first, in the early twilight, it was difficult to make out what was causing the noise. But, then he saw the shape of a man coming towards him; a giant of a man wearing a metal helmet, a long fur-rimmed leather coat, a leather breastplate and fur-rimmed boots. A sword and an axe hung from his belt and around his neck there was a the brightly shining, gold chain
‘What clay-brained coxcomb is it that would provoke me?’ said the phantom in a world-weary tone. ‘Can’t you pignuts just leave me in peace. Haven’t you louts got anything better to do with your time?’
Shocked, the young poet was unable to speak.
‘Stuck for words are you? You tickle-brained maltworm. Well it’s obvious you are or otherwise you wouldn’t come here chanting such nonsense.’
The young poet was offended by this. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a poet and I’m seldom stuck for words; and, if there’s anyone around here that deserves criticism – well it’s you.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that you boil-brained hugger-mugger.’
‘I dare because I speak the truth. I was promised a lot more than the poor excuse for a phantom you’ve turned out to be, a phantom who can’t do better than creep up on a person.’
‘Well, you beetle-headed baggage, what do you expect if you chant such rubbish. Ippikin, Ippikin. Keep away with your long chin. It’s nothing more than a children’s rhyme and it doesn’t scan properly. Did you really believe it was going to make me angry?. It’s a mild irritation, that’s all. From a poet I’d have expected better.’
‘I’m sorry, but I used the words I was given. Next time I’ll use my own words. And then I promise you my words will drive you mad. But I’ll only do it if you promise to put on a better show.’
‘Put on a show in this world of show? Look here, you idle-headed clotpole, I make the rules around here, not you!’ Iippikin stopped and looked down at the young poet. ‘However, you look like an honest sort. So I’ve a mind to humour you. You come up with a rhyme that genuinely maddens me and I’ll not disappoint.’ With that, Ippikin turned and ambled back into the trees at the foot of the scarp.
The young poet, left on his own, sat on a log and took out his laptop.. He was feeling inspired and was soon typing furiously. He smiled to himself at each fresh creation and laughed out loud at his own cleverness. ‘That’s enough,’ he said to himself eventually. ‘If this doesn’t do it, nothing will.’
He put his things back in his bag and approached the craggy, limestone cliff.
‘Are you ready in there?’ he shouted.
‘I’m ready, do your worst.’
‘Ippikin Ippikin – nerdikin, twerpikin’
‘That’s pathetic, you craven, crook-pated measle, it’s worse than the old one. You don’t really think I’d come out for that.’
‘Then how about this - Ippikin, Ippikin –dumbikin, dunce-ikin.’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Better, you mangled, gut-griping puss ball, but you’re not there yet.’
‘Don’t worry, I think this’ll do it,’ the young poet said confidently, ‘ Ippikin, Ippikin – crassikin, assikin!’
A heavy silence fell. The birds ceased their dusk chorus.
Then ground shook. A storm blew - lightning flashed and thunder roared. Trees fell from the cliff and rock fragments showered down on him.
The boulder in front of the cave rolled away and Ippikin appeared. He was ten times larger than before and surrounded by fire. The stench of the dead filled the young poet’s nostrils as he looked at Ippikin’s face – a face contorted with hatred and anger as he made straight for the young poet. ‘Come here you venomous, fen-sucked scut.’
But the young poet was not afraid. ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – goonikin, loonikin,’ he shouted as he skipped along the slope.
Ippikin lumbered after him snapping down trees as he gave chase. ‘I’ll get you, you gorbellied, lily-livered jolthead.’
The young poet dodged down the slope. ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – grossikin, dope-ikin.’ he called over his shoulder at the trundling giant behind him.
‘You can’t get away from me you frothy, flap-mouthed moldwarp.’
‘You’ll never catch me,’ the young poet bellowed, ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – dimikin, nitikin.’ He came to a stream and leapt to the opposite bank; but slipped and fell.
Ippikin caught up, grabbed the young poet and carried him, above his head, to the steepest part of the edge. He was about to throw him down the slope when the poet yelled , ‘Ippikin stop! How will people know?’
‘How will people know what you brazen-faced giglet.?’
‘Know the verses they can use to anger you.’
Ippikin paused.
‘I can tell them,’ said the young poet. ‘I’ll write a story about this evening and when people read it they’ll know what to say when they come here.’
Ippikin thought this over. ‘And you promise to do that.’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘And what will you call this story?’
‘I’ll let you decide that.’
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘ that’s only fair.’
He placed the young poet back on the ground and walked slowly away towards his cave. Just before he re-entered that dark and dreadful place, Ippikin turned and said to the young poet, in a deep and sorrow-filled voice, ‘Call it Ippikin and the Young Poet.’

Much Wenlock Saturday, 21st March , 2009

Here are the activities planned for the day:

10.30 Arrive, coffee in Priory Hall, outline of the day.

10.50 Brief walk around Much Wenlock - indicating possible alternatives

11.15 – 12.15 An hour’s free exploration of the town.

12.15 – 12.45 An interview with Ken Milner. PF will ask KM questions about his childhood in Much Wenlock, his work at the Priory and subsequently, the Wenlock countryside and flora, and KM’s written work about MW.

12.45 – 1.15 Lunch (brought by members; speakers are very welcome to join in)

1.15 - 2.00 Paul Weedon will guide us through the geology of the area, and the evolution of its landscape. After his presentation, there will be time for questions.

2.15 A Taste of the Edge – a short walk along part of Wenlock Edge (but for those to whom that doesn’t appeal, there will be displays and reading material in Priory Hall, and/or a further chance to explore the town.)

4.0 Tea at Priory Hall, where we shall be joined by Paul Evans, local naturalist, writer and broadcaster (who writes the Country Diary on Wenlock Edge, in The Guardian, many Wednesdays.)